He made it a part of his religion never to say grace to his meat.

Ted likes his meat dead, enough said

He was not a man who told himself comfortable lies.

I should never make anything of a fisherman. I had not got sufficient imagination

He glutted black ravens on the rampart of the stronghold, though he was no Arthur.

He was caught in the old dilemma of the man with unintegrated values, who eats meat but would rather somebody else did the butchering.

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.

No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money.

Like all Americans, he had no talent for bowing to the inevitable. The word ‘impossible’ is not in his vocabulary.

He was not psychotic enough to set himself up as a chosen arbiter of mores and laws.

That young man with the long, auburn hair and the impudent face - that young man was not really a poet; but surely he was a poem.

He wasn't an adventurer, he wasn't a rascally pilgarlic like one of those lean rogues lambasted in Rabelais who set their scurvy wits to deface, deflower, debauch and abduct, some sweet-blooded noble wench of an ancient breed.

He was not one of those dull-witted, unimaginative men of nerveless meat who were too stupid ever to be afraid

No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.